


Grown Up and Done For

by cjmarlowe



Category: Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Anonymity, Identity Issues, Lost Boys, M/M, growing up is a tragedy, kink bingo, semi-public sexual activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All children, except one, grow up. For the Lost Boys, it's exactly as complicated as you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grown Up and Done For

"Just call me twin," I say, pronouncing it with a small 't' in my head, unlike when I was younger and they tried to give me a name. I don't remember anymore why my brother and I resisted so hard, but I remember how important it felt. And that name they insisted on never did end up feeling like mine, not really.

"I can't do that."

"Of course you can," I say to him. Flame-red hair barely tamed but bespoke suit—he's just left the office, maybe, on his way home to the wife and kids. I don't like those much, but try not to assume something _is_ just because it _could be_. Tootles has suits like that now. Of course he's not called Tootles anymore. I have mine too, in my shabbier way, complete with bag and umbrella. But not here, not tonight.

"Twin," he says, turning it back into a name and not just a fact.

"See? It's easy."

The bloke, Martin he told me, kisses me then, like naming me has made all the difference. The truth is, I've always been defined by my relationship with my brother, even now in something like this when we couldn't be more different. And I'm fine with that, I like that, even if I've never figured out how to explain to people that lack of individual identity is an identity too.

"It's hard," says Martin, and I really hope that isn't meant to be a double entendre. Martin looked more clever than that when I picked him up at the bar of the pub, the one for men like us. I prefer clever men. They're much more likely to understand me, or they're much less likely to try. Either way.

"Come on," I say, tugging him back into the darkness. "Forget that. It doesn't matter."

"You're so beautiful," says Martin. It's somehow too sincere, too desperate, which convinces me even more that he's just engaging a bit of fun away from the family tonight, letting himself have what he really wants this once in a blue moon. Which also makes it even more perplexing that he seems so hell-bent on tagging me with some kind of identification. We don't actually need to talk at all. He's making it all much more difficult than it needs to be. "I'm going to call you George."

I'd regret going for him instead of the banker in the corner, the one I've had a couple times before, but then Martin unbuttons my trousers and slips a hand inside and I remember that I saw Martin's hands first. Oh, those hands can make up for any multitude of sins.

"No, Paul," he says, kissing my neck.

"You can use your mouth for more than just calling me names," I say. I'm not going to get naked here, but Martin's not one of the men I'd bring home to the place I still share with my brother either, so we make do with dark corners and loosened clothing. Martin wraps a hand around my prick and I know I should return the favour but instead I just enjoy it for a few moments, closing my eyes and imagining we're somewhere else.

"Jesus, Clarence," he gasps, finally, "I'm going to pop a button soon."

The moment gone, I reach for Martin's belt, unbuckle it and start popping the buttons open myself, carelessly. It's not like I don't enjoy this, and Martin's a good-looking man. His eyes are bright and his hair is begging to break free and he reminds me of Lord Slightly, in his way. It just feels good to be selfish sometimes. 

It also feels good to have a prick in my mouth, which is where I'm going with this even if Martin hasn't figured that out yet. "Maybe we don't have all the time in the world," I say, "but we've got enough. We've got enough for this."

"Are you sure?" says Martin, eyes darting around. As I watch his eyes, as I interpret his motions, my estimation of him makes an abrupt shift. A man hiding this from his family knows exactly how long he can take. This is something different. Martin is just _new_. If he's worried about any family it's parents or siblings, not wife and children.

"Trust me," I say, and remember not to say 'trust us'. I remember saying that a lot, once, but maybe it was only in a dream. A lot of things I thought I remembered feel like dreams now.

Martin is working me smoothly, but I still peel his hand away and drop to my knees on the rough and probably stained carpet and pull his prick out of his trousers. There's nothing really special about it, other than a few freckles, but I swallow it down like a starving man all the same. They don't have to be special for me to like them. There's nothing shameful about being ordinary.

"Oh, Bill," he says, tangling fingers in my hair, and the way he says it I wonder if that's the name of the man that Martin wishes he was with tonight, until a few breaths later he says, "Oh, _John_."

I hum instead of saying what's on my mind, my mouth still full of prick, and Martin moans louder. Too loud for the space we're in, but it doesn't draw any undue attention. He definitely hasn't learned the trick of keeping it quiet, which I kind of like.

I've been with some men who take ages to get off, and some who barely have time to get their trousers down. Martin is happily in the middle, patient as he gets himself sorted but quick off the mark once he gets down to business. I get a sore jaw sometimes, so it's nice when someone gets right down to it, much as I like the fullness, the feel on my tongue. It's flattering, too. Maybe Martin does think I'm beautiful.

"Oh, Luke, oh," says Martin, hips stuttering, and I grip his flies and swallow him down and Martin comes down my throat, the way I want him to.

I wipe my mouth on his shirtsleeves, stand up again, and Martin's hand is right back on my prick, so thoughtfully it's unexpected.

"What's your name?" he says, looking me in the eye.

"It doesn't matter," I say. "You wouldn't remember it anyway."

"I would," he promises. "I will." And I believe Martin is sincere in this moment, but this moment is fleeting.

Even if it weren't, I can't give Martin what he wants.

"Ask me after, then," I say, because after isn't going to be very long from now anyway, and I'd like for it to come even faster.

"Okay," he says, agreeable at last, and if his technique is inelegant, it is efficient and appropriate for the circumstances. Now that I'm not worrying about pleasing him or making conversation, it's very easy to just let the orgasm build until it bursts out of me with a quiet gasp. I've always been a bit of a quick trigger too.

"The mess," says Martin, and he produces a handkerchief, without ceremony, to clean up my belly, his hand and the corners of my mouth before buttoning us both up, right and proper.

Martin steps back and looks at me for long enough that I start to feel uneasy.

"What is it?"

"What's your name?"

"I don't have one."

Martin stares at me some more, "Everyone has a name."

"I lost mine," I say, "and every time someone tried to give me another, it doesn't stick."

"So you call yourself Twin."

"We call ourselves the twins," I tell him. "It becomes more complicated in the singular."

"You might be the most unusual person I've ever met."

"No, I'm ordinary," I say. "I'm perfectly ordinary. You could pass me on the street tomorrow and not know me from the next man."

"I'd know you," says Martin. "I just wouldn't know what to call you if I saw you."

We look respectable again, as much as two men who frequent this establishment ever look respectable, and I straighten Martin's lapels and let him go.

"You wouldn't call me anything," I say, but for the first time in a very long time, I kind of wish that he could.


End file.
